


An Excellent Host

by Geist



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, Chains, F/M, Femdom, Sex, Sexual Content, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-08
Updated: 2011-08-08
Packaged: 2017-10-22 09:56:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Geist/pseuds/Geist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>...is how Doc Scratch describes himself. But he requires some unusual favours in return.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Excellent Host

It is safe, in his house. A refuge from anything paradox space can throw at you. No demon can touch you here, nor monster kill you again. It is the perfect sanctuary, somewhere from which you can watch events unfold and not be watched yourself, a place to plan, to strategise, to gather your strength before you sally out and put right what went wrong. He keeps your room locked, but you know you will be able to leave when it is important to do so.

It is pleasant, in his house. You have a huge room, with a comfortable bed. He gives you beautiful clothes (in bright green, naturally), and the things you need to put your hair into elegant styles, in a most un-troll-like way. The longer you stay, the more you feel like an old friend of yours. He is an excellent host.

There are just two things he asks for in exchange for his hospitality. The first is not to touch the window device, through which you can sometimes see a strange man. You sometimes disobey. You cannot help yourself. It is fascinating. You take a chair and slam it against the device, the only way you can make it work. He always appears when you do it, and chides you for it. Sometimes you fight him, though this ends as expected.

The other request is more esoteric. Every few nights (or what passes for nights here), he comes to your room. As he desires, you are naked. You are not ashamed. Why should you be? Everything you know now is so far out of your previous frame of reference that to feel shame would be foolish. His gaze (does he even have a gaze?) passes over your soft, rounded breasts, your slim figure, those red-tinted folds of flesh between your thighs. He is one of the most powerful beings in the entire multiverse. And then you contemptuously turn your back on him, walk over to a small table, pick up your whip from it, flex it menacingly between your hands and order him to undress.

And he does. His jacket first, then his bow-tie, his gun belt, his shirt. He bends down to take off his shoes, then straightens up and loosens his belt. His hands reach for the fastenings of his pants, and then he seems to hesitate. You glare at him and pull your whip a bit tighter, and he fumbles theatrically as he undoes them. His pants fall to his ankles. He wears no underwear.

As he steps out of his pants, you observe him in all his glory. He is like an alabaster statue, pure white flesh defined by musculature that you can barely make out, so similar is it to everything that surrounds it. The smooth globe of his head seems far too big for the rest of his body, but he holds it regally. And below, his shaft stands proudly from his crotch, large enough to make any male proud.

With a brief curl of your lips and a nod of satisfaction, you order him to create the chains. With not a single movement on his part, green fire flickers across his body and a set of manacles appear on a nearby wall. Again he waits for your command. You give it, and he walks over to the chains, standing with his arms and legs outstretched. You lazily follow him over and close the cuffs around his wrists and ankles, securing him with bonds that he created not seconds ago and that he could turn into slag just as quickly. You step back and admire the sight. Then, you grit your teeth, raise your whip and bring it sweeping down against his flash.

There is a crack when it strikes, and a burst of crackling green energy around the impact. He does not flinch, but his screams sear their way across your mind. The fire fades away, leaving no mark. Again you hit him, again and again, feeling a sudden surge of rage at the fact he keeps you locked up. What right has he! You lash him ceaselessly, switching hands when your arm grows tired, and then, when you can no longer raise the whip, you throw it aside, stride up to him, grab his throat and spit on where his face would be, knowing all the while that he could render you void with his merest thought.

You unchain him and demand he lie down. He does as he is told, and a slight flash of sharp white teeth can be seen behind your lips. This is the part you enjoy the most. You crouch down over him and take his shaft in your hands, guiding it to your cleft. A spark passes from his flesh through yours, making your fingers tingle. Then your outer lips touch the head, and the tingle intensifies. A gasp escapes your mouth. You slowly sink onto him, stretching yourself out, feeling his energies on your inner petals, your jewel, inside your canal. You impale yourself to your limit, and then you begin to take your pleasure from him.

Your hand goes to his chest, steadying yourself as you ride him, wildly rocking back and forth. You toss your head back, your hair coming unstuck from its bindings and flowing out behind you as you cry out in abandonment, throaty moans and ecstatic screams echoing about the room. He is unnaturally smooth in most respects, but you can feel every part of his member pressing into your walls, probing your sweetest spots.

Your pleasure wells up, warmth radiating out from your centre, your limbs filling with the same tingle you feel in your loins. As it happens every time, he climaxes before you, just a moment before you know you will. There is nothing physical, and no indication that he felt anything at all, but you suddenly feel his energy in your genebladder, a green fire that roars through your body with an almost painful fury, followed in a split second by your own peak. Your mind goes blissfully blank as it struggles to process the pleasure.

When you return, your juices are sprayed across his groin and dripping down your thighs, an organic reminder of what always seems such a sterile procedure with him. You get the distinct impression that he would be smiling. You dismount him and he stands up, your fluids fading from his skin and helpfully, from yours. In an instant he is dressed again. He bows and thanks you before leaving. You hear the sound of bolts sliding into place.

You sit on the bed, thinking about your situation. You have no idea why he does these things. You know full well you are not ordering him to do anything. He is ordering himself to them through you. Why? Again you don't know. Maybe the most powerful being likes to feel powerless. But nothing can make him powerless. Nothing but the destruction of his source.

You sigh and lie back on the bed. Soon you are asleep.

The next morning, your special abilities can hold a bouncing ball frozen in time in mid-air for five seconds longer without you concentrating on it. Each night you spend with him grants you a portion of power.

But one question remains in your mind. Are you fucking the power out of him, or is he fucking it into you?

**Author's Note:**

> Just a really strange idea I had the night of the relevant update. I had to get it out of my system quickly before it became malignant X.X Anyway, kudos/comment if you fancy it, or follow me at geistygeist.tumblr.com on the offchance that I put out something more substantial.


End file.
